


there was a thunder inside of my heart

by threeonelead (Pbgrpy)



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Boston Red Sox, Getting Together, M/M, World Series Game 3, pretty fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 17:03:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16769269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pbgrpy/pseuds/threeonelead
Summary: "I actually, after the game was over I started crying because that was—I mean, he's grinding. Every pitch. He literally gave everything he had on every single pitch and it was special." -Rick Porcello,after game 3





	there was a thunder inside of my heart

**Author's Note:**

> Rick has feelings for Nate.  
> I could have tried harder to make this more canon compliant, but here we are.  
> Title from American Money by BØRNS  
> Work of fiction, etc. etc.

**October, Los Angeles**

Nate's been warming up in the pen for a while now. If Rick had to guess, he'd say Nate's going to get the 12th, 13th, 14th- whatever Cora needs. He goes up to Nate as he's wrapping up and preparing to run to the mound. Nate turns, and Rick loses his breath at the hungry, hard look in his eyes. He suddenly doesn't know what to say.

"Nate-"

Rick glances quickly around, finds that everyone's distracted, then brings his hand up to Nate's jaw, strokes his thumb against the stubble there. Nate looks down for a second, his mouth curving in almost a smile, then brings his gaze up to Rick's again, looking through his long, dark lashes.

"Knock 'em dead," Rick says, although it comes out as more of a whisper. 

\----

Nate lifts his left leg, moves forward, plants his foot and fires. 96 miles an hour away from Turner. Swing and a miss, strike three, out number 18, each of them more gut-wrenching and full of conviction than the last.

Rick's arm has long gone cold, he's been doing nothing but walking between the bullpen and the bench, sitting, pacing. It's so late on the east coast, not so much in LA, but he can still feel the grittiness of sleep in his eyes battling with the anxiety and adrenaline building in each successive inning. 

He makes his way over to the dugout again. Nate is sitting on the top of the bench, head resting against the wall, eyes closed.

Seeing Nate like this is tugging at something in Rick's chest. He wants to wrap Nate in a blanket and tell him that he's so special, that there's no one like him. Instead, Rick sits on the lower part of the bench next to Nate, letting his shoulder lightly brush Nate's knee, keeping his eyes trained on the field. After a beat, Rick feels Nate's knee nudge his shoulder gently. Rick can't see the expression on Nate's face, but just the warmth of Nate next to him is helping him breathe a little easier, and he hopes it's doing the same for Nate.

\------  
**Early August, Boston**

Rick's feet are propped up on the table, arms stretched out behind his head. When Nate walks in, Rick pulls his sweatshirt off of the chair next to him. Nate sits down right there, even though there are plenty of chairs that aren't right next to Rick. Rick presses play on the laptop that's projecting video of Nate's pitching onto the wall.

"There-" Rick interjects, when he finally finds the hint of a motion. He plays back the fastball, then the slider again, and yes- it's in Nate's elbow and more subtly in the way he's standing.

"What is it, Rick?" Nate asks impatiently. 

"It's your elbow and your stance- if you stand up-"

Nate's already standing, pushing chairs out of the way, making room to get into his hypothetical pitching motion. 

"Okay, now I'm the batter, you're throwing me a fastball, from the stretch."

It doesn't take long for Nate's body to fall into the motions it's practiced tens of thousands of times. He turns sideways, his right hand shielded by his left, feet solidly apart, balanced. He stares Rick down like he would a batter, and suddenly, bizarrely, Rick is jealous of all the batters Nate's faced. To feel the intensity of Nate's focus and his gaze is so intimate, to Rick, those moments when it's just you and your pitcher.

"Okay, now curveball."

Nate takes a moment, shifts his grip on an invisible baseball, realigns his stance, moves his elbow just so to the side- 

"That's it. Did you feel that in your elbow?"

Nate shakes his head. "What am I doing?"

Rick pushes himself to his feet, grabs Nate's elbow where it's an inch away from where it was for his fastball. "Do fastball now."

Sure enough, Nate's elbow creeps back in towards his body. "Did you feel that?"

Nate goes between fastball and curve a few more times, until Rick can tell he feels the movement in his elbow.

"I'm tipping, aren't I."

Rick lets go of Nate's elbow and moves around behind Nate. "And from the second base side, this is what they see." He grabs the back of Nate's elbow with one hand and brings the palm of his other hand to flatten against Nate's spine, reveling in the stutter in Nate's breathing. "Fastball," he says, voice gone quiet and tense.

Nate slowly changes his grip and adjusts his stance, his spine curving slightly forward under Rick's fingers. "Now curve," and his elbow comes out, back straightening up.

"Did you feel that?" Rick asks, and now he's really whispering, not trusting himself to speak louder.

Nate nods. "My back," he says quietly. "Whoever's on second base can probably tell if I'm leaning or not."

"Got it now?"

Nate turns around, unexpectedly, which means his face is tilted up a few inches from Rick's and Rick's hands are still on his back.

"Yeah," he breathes, blue eyes darting over Rick's face, "Thanks Rick."

Rick swallows hard, unable to look away from Nate. He feels like his heart rate's tripled in the last minute. 

A burst of noise comes down the corridor, which means their teammates have come back from lunch and are probably going to enter the film room in thirty or so seconds.

Rick summons every shred of self-control he has and drops his hands from Nate' back as the rest of the guys walk in.

It takes a while for him to stop feeling Nate's body under his hands and his gaze on Rick's own.

\---  
**Late August, Cleveland**

It's August. They're in- Cleveland? Rick thinks. It's hard to think in the morning after a late flight. He's just sat down for breakfast in the visitor's clubhouse when Nate sits across from him, which is a surprise since Nate usually eats with other people, at least since their whole pitch-tipping working session. 

Rick waits for Nate to say something, but he doesn't, just digs into his eggs. Rick shrugs and returns to his breakfast, and is halfway through his cereal when he feels Nate's foot slide against his own. Nate inches his foot forward until his entire instep is touching Rick's and Rick can barely breathe, what feels like a soft electric shock traveling up his leg. Nate doesn't look up from his food. 

They're both wearing socks and slides, so Rick can feel Nate's foot more than normal, or at least it feels that way. He finishes his cereal, barely tasting it, but can't bring himself to get up to get some more if it means breaking the thin thread between him and Nate.

\---  
It happens again at the game, which Rick's not expecting either. He's not pitching, so he's sitting on the bench, eating seeds. He's aware of Nate, how could he not be, talking idly with the other pitchers, leaning against the railing. 

Rick feels his heart rate speed up as Nate moves away from the railing, moving deeper into the dugout, part of him hoping that Nate will spare him and keep walking, the other part rejoicing when Nate hops up onto the bench next to Rick, shuffling closer until- oh god- his entire right leg is flush against Rick's left. Nate doesn't say anything, as per usual, just eats his own seeds, claps when one of the boys makes a great catch. 

Rick really can't breathe now. He'd thought this morning was bad, but it was nothing compared to this, this hyperawareness of every miniscule movement of Nate's leg against his, the fabric of their pants catching, sending shock waves throughout Rick's body, to his chest, to his stomach, and even lower. 

Rick wants to put his hand on Nate's thigh, he wants to touch Nate's cock, he wants to kiss Nate's neck. And he wants Nate to touch him, for real. Rick allows himself to imagine Nate on his knees in front of him right here in the dugout, Nate's gorgeous mouth kissing up Rick's thigh, looking up at Rick through his eyelashes-

Rick takes it for exactly one third of an inning before he has to leave, pretty sure he mumbles something that makes no sense before practically running into the clubhouse, pacing back and forth, trying to get himself under control.

\---  
Rick's lying on his bed at the hotel after the game, flipping through channels. He hears a knock on his door and he's almost embarrassed at how quickly his heart jumps. It's not Nate, he tells himself.

It's Nate, in a t-shirt and soft sleep pants, eyes wide. Rick steps aside, lets Nate in, closes the door.

Nate's looking at him, biting his lip, and Rick can't take it anymore. He pushes Nate against the wall, crowding him in, the sound of Nate's exhale zipping through his blood. 

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Rick is a little embarrassed of how low and growly his voice comes out. 

Nate looks up at him, red lips and blue eyes. "It worked, didn't it?"

And they're kissing, lips soft and stubble rough. Rick can't keep his hands off of Nate, touching the curve of his back, his ass, his neck. Nate licks over Rick's bottom lip, Rick unable to suppress his groan when Nate' tongue slides against his own. If there was any space between them before, there's none now, Rick's thigh sliding between Nate's legs, loving the way Nate gasps when he grinds against Nate's hard dick. 

Rick drops his mouth to Nate's neck, kissing and sucking the way he wanted to back in the dugout. Nate tries to say something, but can't get the words out when Rick scrapes his teeth against his neck. "Bed," Nate gasps on his second try, fisting a hand in Rick's shirt and pulling him over to the bed. Rick sits and Nate straddles his lap, kissing him some more until Rick's mouth is buzzing and sensitive and he's feeling more than a little desperate. 

"What do you want, baby," Rick says and immediately wishes he'd kept that particular endearment inside. 

Nate just smiles. "Right pocket- your left."

Rick pulls lube out of Nate's pocket and pushes Nate down onto the bed under him, leaning down for a kiss before pushing Nate's shirt up and helping Nate get it over his head.

"I want to blow you. And finger you," Rick says, a little shocked at his own bravery.

Nate moans and pulls Rick down to kiss him again. Rick kisses Nate's neck. "Is that okay, baby?"

Nate laughs. "Yeah, Rick. Do it to me."

Nate's an absolute dream, Rick thinks, with two fingers inside him and Rick's mouth on his dick. Nate's curled his fingers into Rick's hair and is making the sweetest, softest noises, trying to be quiet. Rick adds lube and then stretches Nate to take a third finger, then sucks the head of his dick softly as he presses into Nate's prostate. 

"Rick, oh my god, please," Nate says with gritted teeth, and tightens his fingers in Rick's hair, which makes Rick aware of his own aching dick. 

Rick doubles down on his efforts, setting a consistent stroke with his fingers, keeping the head of Nate's dick in his mouth and sliding his tongue under the crown until he finds a sensitive spot. He feels a rush of pride when Nate goes nonverbal, gasping and making soft punched-out noises, until- "Rick, babe, please, I'm gonna-" 

Rick swallows Nate's come, keeping the pressure against his prostate steady until Nate chokes out, "Okay, enough," pushing softly against Rick's shoulders. He pulls his fingers out slowly and moves back up the bed, hit with an wave of fondness for Nate so strong he has to kiss him, Nate's mouth soft and slack against Rick's.

He should be more embarrassed that he comes immediately at the first gentle touch of Nate's hand to his dick, but he's really, really not, especially with the way Nate's looking at him, pupils blown but eyes soft and warm.

They fall asleep and wake up together, arms and legs tangled together. Rick's not going to forget the way Nate kisses him before leaving for his own room for a long, long time.

\---  
**October, Los Angeles**

Max freaking Muncy hits one over the wall. 

The ball seems to leave the park in slow motion, time slow and meaningless after 18 innings of baseball. Rick hears the blood rushing in his ears, sees Jackie and Benny run fruitlessly after the ball, sees Nate tracking the ball even though everyone knows it's out.

The Dodgers celebrate on the field and before Rick realizes it, two tears have slipped down his face and soon he's actually crying, thinking about Nate and his electric arm and how he shines so incandescently to Rick, all the time, in victory and defeat.

He's never seen anything like what Nate just did. He's never known anyone like Nate.

Rick finds Nate in the clubhouse, later, sits down next to him in front of his locker. He doesn't bother checking their surroundings before he grabs Nate's hand, lacing their fingers together. At this point he's sure no one's going to care. He tilts Nate's face up with his other hand. 

Nate's expression goes from sad to surprised. "Rick, are you- crying?" Nate brings his thumb up to Rick's face, wipes away the wetness around Rick's eyes.

"Nate- you're so special, you're so-" Rick fumbles, trying to find the right words, knowing he's never going to be able to tell Nate just how incredible he is. He cups Nate's face, kisses his cheek, his forehead. After a beat, Nate wraps his arms around Rick and tucks his head between Rick's neck and shoulder. 

They sit there for a while, holding each other, Rick pressing kisses into Nate's hair. He can't give any names to the feeling inside his chest except maybe Nate and love and baseball. And, really, he wouldn't want it any other way.


End file.
